Bullet for My Valentine
by KnightRayne25
Summary: First person telling by Dr. Watson. Holmes is shot in front of Watson and he must do everything he can to save his friend. Little does the good doctor suspect that a bullet might be the least of his troubles. No slash.
1. Chapter 1

The bullet struck Holmes in the chest and he turned his eyes on me. The look of surprised confusion was one I had never seen on my friend's face, and it filled me with dread. A bright red flower bloomed on his white shirtfront, as his legs gave out and he fell. I rushed forward, my mind, body, and soul torn apart as I tried to sort out what was truly happening.

Thankfully, my years of training and medical practice had my hands moving of their own accord even as I shouted for Holmes to make some sign that he was okay. His eyes were open, searching my face, and I saw in them that he was afraid. Again, it was not an expression I had ever thought to see coming from him. His long fingered hand came up to grab my jacket front, his lips moved as if he would say something but only sound that was produced was the gurgling noise that warned his lung had been punctured.

"It is all right Holmes, it is all right." I said but the words were hollow, still I tried to comfort my friend as his blood continued to leak around the hands I held to his chest. "Just breathe, save your strength, old boy, and breathe."

Holmes blinked at me, as he tried to do as I told him but he started to cough as his own blood choked him. I clenched my jaw, my chest twisting worse than it had at Reichenbach. It seemed that I was to bear witness my friend's death yet again. Only this time it would be final, there would be no hope after this for a miraculous reappearance in my consulting room.

"No," I shook my head, "no, Holmes, don't go. Don't leave me, please. Please God, Sherlock. Don't die."

I knew Holmes didn't approve of emotional displays but I couldn't hold back the tears that were suddenly falling down my cheeks. To my great surprise, I watched Holmes smile, a rare, unguarded smile that held such tenderness that it took my breath away. Then those long fingers came up and wiped at the wetness of my face, as his lips moved again.

To this day, I would swear before god that my dearest friend had whispered the words, 'All right John', before succumbing to the black oblivion of unconsciousness. His hand slipped from my face, and a moment of panic seized me. But I could feel the still ragged shallow breaths as Holmes continued to fight for air, and with it, life. Feeling that, and the fluttering of his heart beneath my hands, I felt a bit of myself return, and I became resolute. If Sherlock Holmes would fight, then so would I.

That is when I heard Lestrade's voice, shouting orders to his men about the prisoner we'd come to apprehend, and calling for them to bring a stretcher and my medical bag from the back of the Maria for Holmes. Then he was before me, kneeling opposite Holmes, "Doctor?"

"He is alive; it is bad, but he is alive." I spoke and could see a flicker of hope in the inspector's eyes.

"What can I do?"

I shook my head there was little either of us could do for the man between us, but at the same time I knew Lestrade was a man of action and could no more sit idle in this situation than I could. "We must get him to a hospital, fast. The bullet is still in there, he needs surgery right away."

Lestrade grimaced, the science of medicine had advanced in leaps, and bounds in the last century but surgeries, and the infections that often followed, were nearly as likely to kill a patient as save them. Still, even a small chance at a time like this was a chance that had to be taken. Two constables rushed in carrying a stretcher and the bag, and before the inspector could open his mouth, I was barking orders to them as if they were orderlies under my command back in the field hospitals of Afghanistan.

"Give me the bag, and hold your hands here. Tightly now, we must slow the bleeding as much as possible." I instructed the closest man, I would later find out it was Constable Rance, as I quickly searched out the supplies that I thought best.

I hand several wads of bandages to Rance, "Use this to soak up the blood, and hold it tight."

Lifting a green case, very similar to the one Holmes kept in our sitting room, I removed the hypodermic needle and a small vile of morphine. The irony of my actions was not lost on me as I quickly rolled back Holmes' sleeve and added yet another round scar to those that littered his inner forearm. But even unaware as he was I knew that the body could still feel the strain of pain, the drug would lessen it, and hopefully by doing so the energy saved would give him enough strength to beat the devil that was trying to claim him.

That done, I looked up at Lestrade, "Bring the stretcher over here."

He and the other constable did as I said, unfolding the cot next to the prone man as I moved around to his head. "Keep holding the bandages, while Lestrade and I lift."

Rance nodded, and Lestrade moved down to take Holmes' feet. We counted three, lifted the lanky detective, and placed him onto the stretcher. At this point, the inspector began giving orders again. I didn't pay much attention to what he said though, as my focus was on my patient as he started to cough once more.

It was weaker, he was weaker, so I eased him to his side so that the pink foam of blood might drain from his lips rather than roll back into his throat. The action seemed to ease Holmes efforts to breathe a bit, and so I held him that way as the police lifted the arms of the stretcher with its burden balanced in the middle, and we rushed out to the waiting carriage.

I did everything I could think of to ease my friend. I held his head and wiped his lips of blood when he would cough. I pressed more bandages to his chest when the blood soaked through the previous ones, and spoke encouragements to him as the Maria flew through the night. Even so, I felt as if Holmes was slipping away from me. His pulse was little more than the fluttering of a small frightened bird under the fingers I held to his throat as we pulled up to the front steps of Bart's.

St. Bartholomew's was a teaching hospital, I had gone to school here, and so I knew it very well. I yelled out what was going on to the night nurse as the constables carried in Holmes, giving instructions to get the surgeon on duty, and to set up an operating theatre immediately. She gave us hurried directions in which to take Holmes, and then rushed the other way to get the doctor.

By the time the man arrived, I had Holmes lying still on the operating table. I had, with Rance's help, stripped him down to his waist, and was busy cleaning the area around the wound with surgical spirits. His voice was harsh and accusing as he growled, "Who are you people?"

I did not look up, nor stop my actions, as I answered. "Dr. John Watson, this man is Sherlock Holmes. He has been shot. The bullet struck just below the third sinister rib, it appears to have missed his heart, but there is significant haemorrhaging in his lungs."

The elder doctor listened to me, and then looked down at my friend with a grave face. I could not blame him for his expression; Holmes did not look good at all. His face and lips were paler than I had ever seen them, and his skin had a waxiness to it that was chilling. Still, I had not expected what happened next.

The old man shook his head sadly, "I am afraid there is nothing I can do for him."


	2. Chapter 2

"I am afraid there is nothing I can do for him."

The old man's words were foreign to my ears and it took me a minute to understand what he'd said. When the words finally penetrated the fog of my mind, the man was already turning to walk away. I dropped the sponge I'd been holding, and rushed to grab him by the arm. "No wait, you can't go. You have to do something, or he is going to die!"

The surgeon pulled free of my grip, "My dear man, get a hold of yourself. Surely, as a doctor yourself, you can see that it is far too late for a mortal hand to save this young man."

_'No, it wasn't true.'_ I thought shaking my head, out loud, I said, "You don't understand."

"No, Dr. Watson, I think you do not understand. A wound like that is virtually inoperable. Besides, even if it weren't, this man has lost far too much blood. I'm sorry, but he wouldn't survive an operation at any rate. It would be pure folly, a waste of time, to attempt such a thing."

Again, the man's words didn't make sense to me, and I blinked at him. Surely, he had not said that attempting to save the life of Sherlock Holmes was a waste of time. Again, I shook my head. "It isn't true."

The man frowned, gently reaching out to pat me on the arm like a lost child. "I am truly sorry, friend."

I closed my eyes at that word. I felt anger burn in the pit of my stomach. How dare the man use such a word while refusing to help me save the truest, best friend a man could ever hope for. My hands fisted at my sides as I fought for control, desperately searching for the words that would make this fool understand.

Then a strange sensation settled over me, as if a calm long fingered hand were laid on my shoulder. I could almost hear Holmes' cool sardonic voice whispering in my ear. "Reason, Watson. You know my methods, apply them."

I opened my eyes then, and faced the old doctor. "Perhaps not, Doctor. This is still a teaching hospital, is it not?"

"Of course it is," the man blustered.

"Then why not use this as an opportunity to learn? Mr. Holmes has lost a great deal of blood it is true, but surely you have the equipment available in this place to perform a transfusion?"

The old man's eyes seemed to light up at my words, and I realized that I had hooked him. "Of course we do, but it is still an experimental procedure. It is highly dangerous."

"True again, but what really do you have to lose by attempting it?" I asked, the cool calculating sound of my own voice making me sick.

Yet, I pushed on, anything to land this fish and save Holmes. "If you are able to save this man's life despite the dangers of the operation, and the risks of a blood transfusion. Think what you could learn?"

"And if he dies in the attempt?"

"What then if he does?" I said shrugging my shoulders as if the mere concept of such an event had not tied knots around my heart. "As you said Doctor, the man is already dying. What more harm could come to him? But you could still gain invaluable knowledge."

The old man looked past me to where Holmes lay. "We do not have a donor."

"I'll do it, Sir." The deep bass sound of Constable Rance's voice filled the room, reminding me for the first time that he, and Inspector Lestrade, where still with us.

I turned around, and met his green eyes. He gave me a small reassuring smile, and nodded in salute. I nodded back, unsure how I would ever repay him, as I turned back to the doctor. "Well?"

"You, I suspect, would like to assist?" he inquired and I nodded.

He smiled broadly, rubbing his hands together excitedly, as he moved toward my friend. "Then we'll start. You'll find the transfusion syringe in that cabinet there. Quick now, let's get to it."

The man's child-like glee made my stomach roll again, yet once more, I seemed to hear Holmes' voice whisper to me, "Well done, Watson. Very well done."

Holmes often said emotions were a danger to a thinking man. That they clouded judgement, blocking a man's reason. But as I returned to his side, and looked down at his too pale face, I was struck how excellent a liar my friend was.

I had used his beloved reason and logic to bend the older doctor to my will, but it had not been without emotion. My emotions had burned as hot as ever, they'd merely been hidden below the surface, suppressed under the apathetic manner I had adopted so that I would sound calm. I shook my head at my own stupidity, to think I had once called him a heartless automaton.

_'You really must live now, Sherlock,'_ I thought as gathered the equipment I needed. _'You simply cannot die until I have had a chance to make up for such hard words.'_

I had Lestrade bring one of the many chairs from the observation gallery over, and instructed Rance to remove his uniform coat. I had the constable roll back his sleeve, and prepared the needle in both his and Holmes' arm. Then with instruction to Lestrade on how to operate the syringe, I turned back to my friend intent on keeping my earlier vow to fight for him.

...

I can't clearly recall how we managed it, but after what seemed like a lifetime in that cold echoing chamber of medicine, I was sitting next to my friend in a small, mostly private, room. I say "mostly private", because there was one other patient in the room. I looked over at Constable Rance, who was sleeping off the dizzying effects of providing his blood to Holmes during the operation.

His actions, I have no doubt, were directly responsible for the continued breath that passed, shallow and raspy as it was, through Holmes' lips. Sharing a recovery room with him for a few hours until he could head home was paltry thanks in my opinion. As far as I was concerned, the man was a hero and should be knighted, at the very least, for his valour.

Though, truthfully, Holmes was far from safe yet. His breathing was easier, but he still coughed from time to time, bringing up traces of blood whenever he did so. It was worrisome, but it was infection and fever were the most dangerous threats to my friend's recovery now.

Holmes started to cough again, and I got up to gently roll him to his side. Somewhere in the back of my mind I made a note how, despite the pain it must cause, he seemed to have fewer difficulties when lying on his injured side rather than his back or even his right. Perhaps I would share my observations with Dr. Cohen; I had promised him knowledge if he would help me, after all.

At the moment though, Holmes had all of my attention as I wiped away the line of blood at the corner of his mouth. "Easy, old man, easy."

I could not be sure, wherever Holmes was, if he heard me, but he seemed to give a shuddering sigh and relax back into his pillows. I smiled, brushing back the hair that had fallen over his closed eyes. Again, I didn't know of my touch was any comfort to the sleeping man, but it was something to me.

Feeling his cool skin under my fingers was reassuring. It was a connection that told me the man before me was real and not the dream of a broken heart. Holmes was real, and he was there. And he would wake up. I knew this as well as I knew my own name when I touched him. So gently taking his hand, I sat back in my chair, and waited.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks to my Bata, how she puts up with it all I will never know. Especially, when like Alice, I don't always follow her very excellent advice.

* * *

I sat back in my chair, and waited.

A few hours passed, and I must have fallen asleep in my chair because I was surprised by the sudden appearance of Inspector Lestrade in the room. He raised his hands, palms outward, and confirmed my assumption. "Steady on, Doctor. Didn't mean to wake you. Just came to collect the Constable, and take him home."

"Oh," I said, blinking at the two police officials.

Rance was up, buttoning his uniform, and I assumed his moving around was what woke me. Then, collecting myself, I sat up straighter and attempted to adjust my clothes into something more respectable as well. Of course, it was hopeless. My clothes were the same ones that I had put on that morning, before any of this matter took place, and they still displayed the evidence of tragedy upon them.

Inspector Lestrade saw the frown I sent my sleeve, and cleared his throat. "I took the liberty of stopping by your flat at Baker Street on my way to make my report at the Yard. I thought to let your landlady know something of this business, and she sent this around for you."

Lestrade held out a carpetbag to me. I took it, and looked inside at one of my neatly folded suits. I felt the unmistakable pang of guilt for forgetting about the old woman from whom Holmes and I rented our rooms. Mrs. Hudson had become over the years a surrogate mother of sorts to us.

She was tolerant, and perhaps a little indulgent, of Holmes' moods. She cooked and cleaned, when Holmes would let her, for us. She never complained about the number of strange 'visitors' that came for the eccentric detective at all hours of the night and day.

Through it all, she had taken to worrying whenever one or both of us were later in arriving home than expected. I knew we had been making her worry far too much recently. And still, on being woken up in the middle of the night to news of Holmes in the hospital, possibly never to come out again alive, she had packed me a clean suit.

My eyes stung suddenly, and I swallowed the lump in my throat, "Good Mrs. Hudson."

Lestrade cleared his throat, and I looked up at him. He looked slightly uncomfortable, and I could not say that I blamed him. Placing the bag he'd brought me aside, I stood and offered my hand to him. "I can't thank you enough for you help."

"Either of you," I added as Constable Rance, who was still a bit pale, came up to stand behind his inspector.

"That's fine, Doctor. It is our job to serve the public, any way we might," Lestrade said his voice clipped and official sounding.

But as he shook my hand, I saw his dark eyes shift past me to the silent figure on the bed. "I wish there were more we could have done. You will keep us appraised if the opportunity arises when we might be of assistance; will you not, Dr. Watson?"

I had known Lestrade for many years, but Holmes had done so for considerably longer. In all the time we worked together, I had assumed Inspector Lestrade respected Holmes for his talents, and perhaps was even jealous a time or two. But it wasn't until that moment, when I saw the look of concern in his eyes, that I realized the police inspector might feel something more friendly toward the man who abused him so often.

I felt for Lestrade; sympathizing with others was often easier than dealing with your own pains, and gave him my best reassuring smile, "You have my word, Inspector. I'll send a note too, if there is any change."

Lestrade's lips twitched, and he nodded. "Thank you, Dr. Watson. Good day."

"Good day, Inspector Lestrade, Constable." I shook both men's hands, before walking them to the door.

Closing it after them, I turned back to lean on it and looked down at Holmes. "What do you make of that, Holmes?"

I stood there for a long moment, half expecting a sarcastic reply, I think, but the only sound that greeted me was the rough sound of his breathing. I sighed, shaking my head at my own foolishness. Then walking over to him, I touched the pulse point at his wrist.

Holmes' pulse was still far slower than I liked, though that was not to be unexpected, considering the circumstances. Still, I took encouragement from the steady beat below my fingers, before retrieving my stethoscope to continue my examination. I placed the head of the instrument to his chest and listened with a frown.

Again, I suppose I should not have been surprised by the thick wet sound that greeted my ears, but it still painful for me to hear. I had known others in my career whose chests had sounded similar. They'd been patients with pneumonia, or in the late stages consumption, and rarely had they recovered. I had watched them slowly, painfully drown in the fluids that accumulated in their lungs.

The thought of watching Holmes coming to such a fate was enough to steal own my breath. I pulled the stethoscope from my ears, as I sat heavily on the chair that I had abandoned when speaking with Lestrade. I looked at my friend as if seeing him for the first time since this whole mess began.

Though he had always been tall and thin, now Holmes' sharp aquiline features looked positively gaunt. His skin was paper white and there was a light sheen of sweat on his brow. His closed eyes were sunken back in dark shadows. His thin lips were chapped, and parted in an effort to draw as much air in as possible.

I had seen corpses that had looked healthier then my friend, and I felt a sharp stinging sensation in my eyes again. I squeezed them closed, as I buried my face in my hands, "God, Holmes, what have I done to you?"

I had brought the great detective to this. I felt it in my mind as surely, as if my bullet had been the one that struck him down. I had been the one that brought his attention to this case. He didn't even want to take it; called it too ridiculously simple. But I had pushed him into it, just as I was pushing him now.

Dr. Cohen had been right when he first came into the surgery; as I doctor I knew the kind wound my friend had. I knew the chances of survival. I knew, even if he somehow beat those odds, the pain that would be involved in the months of recovery.

Yet rather than allow Holmes go peacefully, I had selfishly manipulated another into performing a risky operation. An operation that, if Holmes didn't recover, could get us both a charge of wilful negligence, or wrongful death if his brother Mycroft chose to press it. Being barred from practice would be the least we could hope for in such a case.

I laughed, though to another it might have sounded more like a sob, at the irony of my actions. My life wouldn't be worth the hangman's efforts if I lost Holmes. But to pull someone else to the gallows with me all in order to keep my friend at my side was, all together, a different matter.

The words of the oath I swore on becoming a doctor rang in my ears. _'I will come for the benefit of the sick, remaining free of all intentional injustice.' _Of what benefit had my actions been to Holmes? Yes, he was alive, for the moment at least, but what of the pain and suffering he was certainly going through? And the injustice of my actions where Dr. Cohen was concerned, didn't I have a responsibility to him as well?

Holmes' wet cough broke into my self-deprecating musing, and I went to him. I laid a hand on his back and held his head, gently supporting him until the fit was over. Then laying him down, I cleaned his mouth and wiped the sweat from his face.

I keenly felt the error of my actions. Yet I knew, if I were presented with the situation again, I would do everything much the same way. I shook my head, sadly pleading with the comatose man before me to understand. "I'm only human, Holmes. If that makes me a villain, then a villain I must be. I won't let you go, I can't. I'm sorry."

...


	4. Chapter 4

"I'm sorry."

The only answer to my apology was the man's shuddering breath. I think that sound might haunt me for the rest of my life. But then, as it had the night before in the surgery, a calming force seemed to settle over me, and eased my troubled mind. I almost felt myself smile as I stood, and drew the blankets closer around Holmes' shoulders.

"I need to leave you for a bit, Holmes," I said gently, "I really must change out of these clothes, and send your brother a telegram."

Considering the train of my thoughts a moment ago, the short cough from the man on the bed seemed like a cynical reply to my words. And I did smile, "Yes, I know, Holmes. But I think my cause might be served better if I was to let Mycroft know what is going on, before he reads about it in the morning press."

Holmes lay silent and pale, and I took it as a kind of agreement. A more logical man than myself would have probably identified this as a sign of my weakened mental state; as it was, I thought nothing of it. Rather, I merely retrieved the bag Lestrade had left me, and continued my one-sided conversation.

"I'll see if I can't find a nurse to come in and sit with you while I'm out. I won't be long; twenty minutes, no more." With my assurance given, I drew myself away from my friend, and walked out of the room.

As luck would have it, I spotted two young women dressed in the pale grey and white uniforms of St. Bart's nursing staff walking my direction. I hailed them, "Excuse me, hello there."

The pair looked over, their eyes watching me suspiciously, as they came closer. I could only imagine what they might be thinking, as they dipped their heads in short professional bows. The taller of the two, a girl with a pretty face and quick intelligent green eyes, spoke. "Can we help you, sir?"

I did my best to look as professional as they did, despite my appearance, and nodded back. "I hope so. I assume you are nurses here?"

The taller one gave me a look that would have been at home on Holmes' face. It was same the look he often gave members of the police force after they had said or done something he found positively absurd. It was the look of the silent suffering of a being forced to mix with those below himself in the realms of existence.

There was so much superiority in this girl's eyes, and in her air altogether, I could easily believe her to be a queen addressing some peasant who dared block her path in the street. Perhaps I should have taken offence at the look she gave me, but living with Holmes for so long had deadened that emotion. I was rather more intrigued by the rare boldness of the girl than anything else, as she answered my question.

"Yes sir, I am Head Nurse of this ward, my name is Jane Armitage."

I was taken aback by this; the girl didn't look nearly old enough to have such a responsibility. My surprise must have shown on my face, as I watched her sharp eyes narrow as she went on to introduce her companion. "And this is my assistant, Nurse Johnson."

Nurse Johnson, a dark, more demure creature with a sweet round face, bobbed a curtsy. I returned her complements with a nod, then looked back at Nurse Armitage to introduce myself. "I am Doctor Watson."

I got a little of my own back as I watched a flicker of shock in the girl's green eyes at learning my title, and I almost smiled. What was the saying about turnabout, and fair play? Under other circumstances, I thought I might enjoy spending time nettling her about it. The banter would undoubtedly be spirited; however, my time was limited, and truthfully, my mind was not free to follow such pursuits either.

I pressed directly to my point of calling them over, "I arrived late last night with a seriously injured patient."

I gestured to the room I had just left, "He is currently resting, but his condition is very grave. I would rather not leave him alone should the worst happen, but I'm afraid there are some errands I must see to. I would therefore, be obliged to you, Nurse Armitage, if you could arrange to have one of your girls sit with him until I return."

"Is he that bad?" Armitage asked, and I felt my throat constrict to the point where all I could do was nod.

I watched the girl unconsciously draw her bottom lip between a set of neat little white teeth, as her eyes softened with compassion for a man she didn't know. The action impressed me on many levels, both emotional and professional. If I was intrigued by her before, I was doubly so now.

I wanted to know everything there was about Nurse Jane Armitage, but at the same time responsibility called me. I cleared my throat, "It will not take me long to finish what needs to be done, and then your nurse can be back to her duties."

"I could sit with the gentleman if you like, Mum," Nurse Johnson offered, looking up at her superior.

Jane, I decided that her last name was far too harsh for the heart I'd just glimpsed, seemed to consider the offer for a second before she shook her head. "No Flora, thank you. You are supposed to help Abby train the new girls today, remember?"

Johnson nodded and looked down contritely at the hands she folded in front of her. Jane, however, turned her brilliant green eyes to me, meeting mine with complete frankness. "My girls are very busy right now Dr. Watson. We look after the patients on this ward, help the teaching staff with their lectures, and train new nurses."

"I understand," I said. I knew that one patient in a hospital like this was a minor thing compared to the vast number of other activities that went on. It was a sad fact of our society that if you were not someone of wealth, fame, or position, you were often overlooked.

Holmes, I knew, had earned a great deal of money over the years and was now wealthy enough live in princely fashion for two lifetimes or more. But true to his bohemian soul, he preferred not to advertise that fact. Money, to him, was a means to an end. He had a comfortable life, and the money he had allowed him to the freedom to practice his craft the way it appealed to him rather than as a matter of necessity.

He used his money for the cause of justice, and it was the same with his fame. He accepted my pathetic attempts at chronicling of his cases, because it was an incredible form of advertising. But that didn't mean he wouldn't be angry if I were to use either that, or his back account, in order to garner special treatment. Still, he would have to recover first before he could yell at me, and by then it would be too late to change it.

So I was in the process of opening my mouth in order to plead my case, when Jane spoke again. "Good, then I will stay with your patient until you return, Dr. Watson. And you will understand when I insist that you return as quickly as possible."

Once again, the girl surprised me. She was certainly not an ordinary woman, a fact that relieved the last traces of apprehension I felt at leaving Holmes in someone else's care even for a short period of time. "You have my word, Madam, that I will."

Jane nodded and dismissed her assistant, who curtsied to me one last time and hurried off. Her superior attitude was once more firmly in place as she met my gaze again. "Are there any special instructions you wish to tell me, Doctor?"

This, too, was a dismissal, and I, oddly, felt myself smiling. "No, Nurse. Merely keep him comfortable, and do as you know best."

"Very good," Jane answered, and we nodded to each other in mutual understanding before parting ways for the moment. As she went to Holmes' room, I turned down the hall. I relied on the memory of my legs to take me where I wanted to go, and for the brief interlude let my mind rest on nothingness.

…


	5. Chapter 5

I relied on the memory of my legs to take me where I wanted to go, and for the brief interlude let my mind rest on nothingness.

I found my way to one of the many rooms the hospital's surgeons use to prepare for, and clean up after, an operation. There I washed and changed; all of which took me less than ten of the twenty minutes I'd given myself to complete my tasks. For all the ills that came of my life in the army, this, at least, was one of the few benefits that could not be denied. Looking more presentable and feeling substantially more human, I took myself down to the small telegraph office at the main entrance of the hospital, and sent two telegrams.

The first to the elder Holmes explaining shortly that Sherlock had been shot on a case, that he was alive, but that Mycroft might wish to come anyway. A second went to Mrs. Hudson, and I filled it with as much reassurance as I could. I let her know Holmes was alive and stable, but I would be staying with him for the time being. I thanked her for sending the change of clothes, and asked her to remain confident in Holmes' stubborn nature to see him through this ordeal, as it had through so many others.

My job complete, I went back up the stairs to relieve the captivating Nurse Jane, as I promised. However, the closer I got to the room where my friend waited, the harder I found it to keep my feet moving forward. I considered this, and realized with surprise and not a little shame, that I did not wish to return.

I was afraid. No, I was terrified, of what was behind the simple wooden door. I didn't want to see Holmes in the condition that I left him. And the possibility he may have gotten worse in the short interlude sent ice though my veins directly to my heart.

What kind of friend did that make me? What kind of doctor? Holmes deserved better of both than what he clearly had in me. I came to a complete stop in the long corridor before the room. And dropping my head into my hands, I growled in frustrated self-loathing. I couldn't do this.

"Stop this." The sound of my own voice surprised me, and I looked up expecting to see someone else standing there.

Of course, there was no one, yet my voice continued its reprimand, "Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Watson. This isn't about you; it's about Holmes. He needs you now; you have to get past this. When he is well again, then you can have your breakdown, not before."

Sometime later, I would try to figure out how yelling at myself in a deserted hallway constituted _not _having a breakdown. However, just now, it strangely seemed to do the trick, and I found the ability to start walking again. I reached Holmes' door without further delay and knocked softy, not wishing startle the girl by my return, before going in.

Nurse Jane stood as I walked in, "You are very quick, Doctor. Were you able to accomplish everything you need to?"

"Yes, thank you, Nurse," I answered as I walked the rest of the way into the room. Approaching Holmes, I took in what I could from the scene. I would never have my friend's deductive talents, but at least here, I was in my element.

Holmes' position on the bed had been changed while I was gone. He was on his back again, though Jane had arranged a pile of folded blankets and pillows behind him so that he was more reclining rather than actually lying down. This, I realized with some chagrin, would be a much more comfortable pose for him, and, judging from the rise and fall of his chest, equally effective in assisting his respiration. Wondering why I hadn't thought of myself, I minutely shook my head, and added this new item to the growing catalogue of my recent blunders.

Moving around to take Holmes' thin wrist in my hand, I checked his pulse, and continued taking notes of Holmes, the room, and Nurse Jane. Holmes' pallor was punctuated by the red blotches of skin over his high cheekbones. A small table had been drawn next to the bed, and held a white porcelain basin of clear water in the middle. Nurse Jane had, judging from the square of damp linen she still held in one hand, been using the water to try and cool my friend's flushed face. Holmes had come down with a fever.

If I had been hoping against this event, I, at least, was expecting it. A fever was an indication the body was fighting to heal itself, which was a good thing. Unfortunately, the typical cause of such a fight was an infection. One day, we would find a way to defeat that particular monster of the medical world. But until then, all could be done was to keep the affected area clean and dry, and to hope Holmes was strong enough to do the rest. As for the fever itself, it wouldn't harm Holmes as long as his temperature didn't rise too high, and we were able to keep enough fluids in him.

We? I think I actually flinched in surprise, as I suddenly realized the turn of my thoughts, and looked over to see Jane's green eyes watching me intently. When had I added her into the equation with included Holmes and myself?

She had been compassionate, and helpful in offering to sit with Holmes while I was out, but that was only one instance. There was nothing to say that she would, or even could, do so again. After all, she was a professional nurse at the hospital, and unlike me, she had duties that would not allow her to devote her time to only one wounded man.

Yet, I could not help desiring it to be otherwise. A desire that, if I were honest with myself, was highly selfish. And so, I found myself smiling with as much charm as I could muster, "I know you must be very busy, Nurse Armitage, but I can't begin to express my gratitude to you for having stayed with him."

Jane returned my expression in similar fashion, "That isn't necessary, Dr. Watson. I hope you won't think me rude for not recognizing you earlier; it is an honour to be of use to such distinguished men as yourself and Mr. Holmes."

I had quickly become accustom to people whom I had only just met being able to identify Holmes. He had such a distinctive appearance, which I flatter myself I captured rather well in my scribbles, that was difficult to mistake him for anyone other than Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The only exception to this was when Holmes would don one of his many disguises, and then I doubt even his mother could have recognized him. Still, I tried to think if we had met the girl before, and if so, where, or if she only knew of my friend though my publisher.

Jane must have read the turn of my thoughts in my expression, apparently this was easily done according to Holmes, as she answered my unspoken question. "We have never met, Dr. Watson. But you and your friend helped my sister-in-law some years ago."

At the mention of a sister-in-law, my eyes moved involuntarily to search the girl's left hand. She saw this too, but rather than take offence, her lips twitched a little higher. "It was my Brother Percy's wife; but you knew her before she was married, when she was still Helen Stoner."

It took a moment for the name to jog the nearly thirteen-year-old memory. Once it did though it all came back as clear as day, and I had to suppress a chill. "Helen Stoner of Stoke Moran, the case of The Speckled Band; a dreadful business."

Jane nodded, "That is what Helen says. She and my brother credit Mr. Holmes with their happiness; so I'm only too glad to be of assistance to him in any way I can."

"That is very kind of them, and of you," I said, trying to keep my voice bland as I fought down a pang of jealousy. Had I not also sat alongside Holmes in that horrid dark room waiting for death to slip in?

Holmes started to cough, and I instinctively moved to hold his shoulders gently against the racking force of his coughs. I smiled ruefully as I supported him, realizing, not for the first time, that this was my role in our partnership. Holmes was the great detective, the brilliant mind, the hero of justice, and I was his support.

I was the sounding board he would throw ideas against as he worked out a problem. I was an extra set of eyes, hands, or muscle when he required it. I was a student to his masterful intellect. I was his faithful right arm, his friend, and his occasional doctor.

I was also, his biographer. And if I sometimes suppressed my own personality, or the part I played in the stories of our adventures together, I did it so that Holmes could shine all the brighter by comparison. I was the one to make that choice; Holmes was apathetic in regards to the public's accolades. And I was content with my place at his side, for the most part. It was only times like now, as I watched Jane gently touch the damp cloth, she held to Holmes' lips, that I felt the chill from my friend's great shadow.

For a man that professed no interest in the fairer sex, the reverse was not true. Women from all walks of society fawned over him. It was as if he were like the mythical unicorn; a creature of strength and intelligence, who's striking features shone just out of the reach of mortal hands. And to claim him would be a prize like no other.

I, on the other hand, was only a man. That was not to say I didn't have my share of romances; I am a man of the world, and in my younger days my hunger had burned over three continents. Of course, I have always been a gentleman; kind, considerate, even charming, and no woman could ever claim to be worse off for knowing me. Nevertheless, young women of my acquaintance had only ever seen me as average. A distinction that had become more pronounced with every year of my continued association with Holmes.

Only my late wife, Mary, had been different. She came into my life through a case she had brought before Holmes, and through the strange events of that introduction, we had fallen in love and became engaged. What she had seen in me, I don't think I will ever know, but I knew that she loved me with all of her sweet understanding heart. It was with these thoughts of my Mary that I was able to put my jealousy aside, and focus once more on the matter at hand.

Holmes' coughing was stronger than previous episodes, but the fit itself was much shorter. I frowned, considering what this might mean. "Could you hand me the stethoscope from my bag there by the window, please, Nurse."

...


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Sorry for the delay in the update, my muse was abducted and I was forced to track the villains around the globe in order to rescue her. Okay, not really. But you got to admit, it sounds better than the truth, which is I had writers block. Anyway, thanks again to my beta, and now I return you to the story already in progress.

* * *

"Could you hand me the stethoscope from my bag there by the window, please, Nurse."

"Of course," Jane said, already in motion to do as I asked.

The well-used leather physician bag was not the largest of its kind, but it had several neat pockets, and straps that allowed me to maximize the limited space without weighing it down. It was Holmes actually, that had given it to me shortly after discovering I had resumed civil practice. When I tried to thank him for the gift, he'd waved me off, saying, "It is more practical, with your shoulder the way it is, than that old military one you had with you the other day."

And so, I had carried it ever since. Though I often had to change out items to fit a given situation when I went on rounds, I, again thanks to Holmes, always kept the essentials of a trauma kit inside. Stethoscope, sutures, scalpels, syringes, smelling salts, bandages, and various types of medications were all neatly labeled, to include a reference to the proper dosages of the medications, and systematically laid out in an easy to find manner.

These things, and their position within my bag, I made a point never to change. I'd also forced Holmes, and some of the Yarders with whom we worked on a regular basis, to learn my organization until they knew it by heart. Since my detective friends were not the only ones that could end up getting hurt during a case, it was a precaution I had felt sensible, if perhaps a bit selfish. After all, I didn't want, nor need, whoever might be forced to treat injuries, should I be incapacitated, to be fumbling around searching for things they required.

As Jane turned back almost immediately, stethoscope in hand, I was rewarded with the knowledge that my system worked even for those not indoctrinated into it. I smiled my thanks to the girl, as I took the instrument she held out to me and lightly pressed it to Holmes' chest. I listened to each lung, subconsciously matching my breathing to my friend's as I compared the one to the other, and judged the sound according to what I knew a healthy pair should sound like.

I sighed, taking the device from my ears and absently handing it back to Jane. "Doctor?"

I laughed; I couldn't help it, though I'm sure I was the very picture of a mad man, as I turned to meet the girl's worried eyes. A sudden overwhelming joy had seized my heart, "He is going to be all right."

As much as I tried to tell myself those same words over the last several hours I hadn't been able to fully believe them until now. Holmes' lungs hadn't undergone some miraculous recovery; even Holmes couldn't do everything. But there was a steady, even marked improvement to the quality of his breathing.

I looked over at the cloth Jane had used to wipe Holmes' mouth with, and smiled. The pink discoloration was slight, almost to the point of being not being noticeable if you were not looking for it. And that, blessedly, meant that Holmes was not still bleeding, but expelling the fluid that had gotten trapped earlier. It was one less worry, and I felt some of the weight lift from my shoulders.

"I'm very glad," Jane said, the sound of her voice let me know she was telling the truth. Then she cleared her throat in a delicate, almost embarrassed sort of way. "Is there anything else you need, Doctor?"

"You need to get back to your duties." I said, and Jane nodded. I felt a little of my happiness faultier with her emanate departure, but I shook it off as I walked around to stand beside her.

I took her small but clearly capable hand, and brought her knuckles to my lips. "Thank you for your help."

I watched a light flush appear on her cheeks, as she pulled her hand back. She looked very young for a moment, just before the self-assured Nurse Armitage came back into her green eyes. "I told you, it was an honour, Dr. Watson. Even if it wasn't, I'm a nurse, and taking care of the sick and injured is part of my job. But if you no longer need me, I really must see to the rest of my work."

"Of course," I said moving with her to the door, and opening it for her as a gentleman should.

She bowed her head, acknowledging my actions as she walked out, but then stopped just in the hall and turned around. "I will check on you both later?"

I smiled at the questioning tone of her voice, "It would be our honour."

She returned my smile, before turning and walking down the hall. I watched her walk away for longer than was wholly proper, then, sighing; I closed the door and went back to Holmes. Taking up the cloth Jane had been using, I dipped it into the water basin; rinsing away the blood while absorbing the cool water. Pulling the chair closer to the bed, I sat down and gently ran the damp rag over my friend's warm brow. Fever, infection, recovery; it wasn't a perfect situation, but a manageable one.

I sighed, which was becoming something of a habit at this point, "Now I wish I'd held off on that telegram to your brother. I could have sent him clearer details. Do you think he'll be terribly annoyed that I didn't?"

Holmes breath caught in a little cough, and it almost sounded like his customary bark of a laugh. I shook my head, "You could wake up before he gets here, Holmes, and that way his relief at your substantial improvement would overshadow any annoyance as to his breaking routine."

My suggestion was met with silence, and I shrugged as I rewet the cloth, and continued sponging the sweat from his pale face. I refused to worry too much over the elder Holmes' possible annoyance. Mycroft really wasn't a man I wished to have cross at me, but frankly, I only had enough energy to concern myself with one Holmes at a time.

...

Over the years, I have had many occasions to note the strange phenomenon that is the passing of time. As a boy, time seemed infinite as the days of my summer holiday stretched brilliantly before me. As a fresh young surgeon in Her Majesty's Army, time rushed by in the flashes of muzzle fire and the screams of men I could not save. As a wounded broken man lost in the throngs of London, time was purposeless, dragging painfully from one day to the next.

But then I met Sherlock Holmes, and time had never been the same. In his presence, time was as eternal, as it was brief, as pleasurable, as it could be agonizing, but it was something never to be missed. It seemed somehow inconceivable that we had been friends now for fifteen years. Such a small number could hardly speak to the depth of connection between the two of us, but nor was it large enough to encompass the immensity of everything that we had accomplished together.

Of course, I could only imagine what Mycroft Holmes thought of the time I spent with his brother as he walked in to find me fast asleep, and practically falling from my chair beside his hospital bed. Whatever it was, he made no allusion to it as he shook me by the shoulder and brought me back to awareness. I opened my eyes to see the larger man's face break into a surprisingly warm smile, "Good morning, Dr. Watson."

...


	7. Chapter 7

"Good morning, Dr. Watson."

Mycroft Holmes was smiling at me when I opened my eyes, but as he stepped back to allow me to rise his features once more took on that sharp analytical expression that he shared with his younger sibling. "You should take care not to go falling asleep in hard chairs, Dr. Watson. It really doesn't do those old war wounds of yours any good."

I frowned at him for a moment, about to ask where the comment came from, and then it dawned on me. "It's because I'm stiff."

Mycroft gave me a quick smile, evidently pleased that I could make such a simple leap of logic, before he turned critical slate grey eyes to the man in the bed. "How is Sherlock, Doctor?"

I looked over at Sherlock as well, trying to see him with an unbiased physician's eye. I will not pretend it was easy; my mind couldn't seem to settle on the evidence before me. One second it seemed the flush on my friend's cheeks was deeper than earlier and I was sure his fever had increased, but when I looked closer, he looked exactly as before.

I sighed, "He is better than I feared, but worse than I hoped."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow at me, "Perhaps it would be easier if you started at the beginning. How did this happen?"

I nodded, absently taking up the cloth again to cool my friend's brow. I could feel the elder Holmes' eyes on me as I gently tended my patient, and began my story. "It was a robbery-smuggling case that was 'simple but with one or two points of interest', as Holmes put it."

Mycroft made a sound in the back of his throat at my use of their surname when referring to his brother. Perhaps it was a bit odd considering our friendship, but then Holmes, especially my Holmes, was an odd man. He allowed so few people the close intimacy of using his given name that, though he would never object if I did, I felt that it was a privilege not to be squandered needlessly. Thus, I continued my tale without alteration.

"Inspector Lestrade had been working on the case for almost a month before he came to Baker Street to get Holmes' advice on it. He'd been able to trace where the goods where coming from, and where they were ultimately ending up. But it was the point of arrival in London before be distributed to the various fences around the city, which he wasn't able to trace."

"Scotland Yard's surveillance techniques are completely inadequate."

I smiled, Mycroft's comment was nearly verbatim what his brother had told Lestrade the day he brought us the case. "Be that as it may, the police managed to follow a few of the thieves to a steamboat, the SS Kalypso, where they watched them load their goods. The only problem was the Kalypso only ever travelled as far as Runnymede from her port in Maidenhead."

"Clearly she transferred her cargo to another ship or some other form of transport."

Again, I smiled, "That was the problem. The police followed the ship, and she didn't stop once, nor pass another vessel, until she docked in Runnymede. They immediately boarded her, searched her cargo and the storeroom where she was offloading to, and found none of the stolen goods they'd watched get loaded. Two days later, however those same goods the police couldn't find still managed to make it to the shops of London."

"Interesting," Mycroft said and I spared him a glance.

His grey eyes sparkled with the same excitement that Sherlock had when he found a case appealing. I wondered if the brothers realized just how much alike they really were; as I listened to Mycroft continue my story for me. "Sherlock, of course, deduced the crew must have dumped the goods, without being observed by the police, at some predetermined location in the river for their accomplices to pick up later, and finish transporting."

"He then conducted his own surveillance; probably by insinuating himself amongst the thieves or ship hands with one of those disguises of his, and discovered where the drop was made. Then he followed the trail all the way to where this," Mycroft gestured toward his brother, "happened."

I nodded, "The items changed hands three or four times on any given night depending on the cargo, and several different routes where used, but in each instance it was always brought to one location; a warehouse off Stew Lane. So, once Holmes was satisfied he had all the information he needed, he contacted Lestrade, and the raid was planned for just after ten last night."

"What went wrong?"

Why is it that the simplest questions never had simple answers, I wondered as the night played back in my head. Holmes and I had dinner at the Royal, he telling me about how he had traced the criminals we were after, and I scribbling notes in my book for later. He had been in good spirits, laughing and making plans to see a new play that was to open later this week.

He had crowed his own genius, saying, "A simple problem, as I said, Watson, but no less invigorating for it. You would think the good Inspector would learn, however, to call me in sooner on such things. Lestrade can be quite helpless sometimes."

I had made some reproving statement about Lestrade doing his best, and reminded Holmes that not everyone could be as brilliant as he was all the time. He had laughed at that; Sherlock had the most infectious laugh of anyone I have ever known, and so, even as I tried to look stern, I had ended up laughing as well. He paid our bill, telling me it was his treat, in honour of the upcoming closing of yet another successful case. Then we had gone out together, his arm carelessly linked with mine, to meet the inspector.

At the warehouse, with all his usual showmanship, Sherlock presented the criminals, along with the police, with all of the evidence he had gathered against them. He informed them that the case was as watertight as the oilskin wrapping they had used when dropping the goods in the Thames. There was no possible means of escaping justice; he had seen everything, anticipating the evening down to the minutest detail.

Or so we had all thought. Carter, that had been the man's name, as I recall now, had been the mastermind behind the whole scheme, and once he realized how neatly my friend had drawn the net around him, he panicked. He drew a small revolver from somewhere on his person, and fired it at my friend before any of us realized what was happening.

The feel on strong hands on my shoulders jolted me back to reality, and I once again found myself blinking at Mycroft Holmes' face. I let him guide me back to the chair, and I realized I was shaking. He took a small flask from his waistcoat and pressed it into my hand, "Drink."

I did, and the unexpected burn of scotch down my throat caused me to choke. I squeezed my eyes shut as I took another, smaller, swallow before passing me flask back to its owner. I rasped, "Thank you."

Mycroft made a humming noise in response to my thanks, before he too drank from the flask, and returned it to his pocket. Then he just stood there watching me with those critical eyes of his for a length before asking, "Are you fit to continue?"

I wasn't sure, but nodded anyway. Taking a deep breath, I finally found the answer to Mycroft's earlier question, "We weren't prepared."

I surprised myself with how even my voice sounded, despite the small tremors I still felt running down my body. I did my best to ignore them as I explained, "Holmes hadn't seen any evidence in the robberies, or while he trailed the smugglers that suggested that any of them would be armed. So we didn't see the danger until it was too late. The leader of the gang shot him, the bullet entered his lung, and he was bleeding everywhere. Lestrade and Constable Rance helped me get him here."

"The constable then consented to be used as a blood donor so Dr. Cohen and I gave your brother a transfusion to try to keep him alive while we operated. Thankfully, it worked. We removed the bullet, repaired what damaged tissue we could to stop the bleeding, and stitched the wound closed. Since then, his breathing has improved greatly, but he has developed a fever and, therefore, probably has an infection. He hasn't regained consciousness yet, but I suspect that he won't for several hours at least. Of course, I wouldn't be surprised if it was closer to another day or two."

Mycroft continued to study me as I gave him this last bit of information. His features completely expressionless, and like his younger brother, I had no idea what he was thinking. And so I was caught off guard when he asked, "Have you eaten anything today, Doctor?"

...


End file.
